Chapter TWENTY: Third (9)

“No, no, he has his deputy-governor, who commands in his absence; he lives in the white house you see at the bottom of the rock--His Grace does not reside there himself.”

“I think not, indeed,” said the dairy-woman, upon whose mind the road, since they had left Dumfries, had made no very favourable impression, “for if he did, he might go whistle for a dairy-woman, an he were the only duke in England. I did not leave my place and my friends to come down to see cows starve to death upon hills as they be at that pig-stye of Elfinfoot, as you call it, Mr. Archibald, or to be perched upon the top of a rock, like a squirrel in his cage, hung out of a three pair of stairsí window.”

Inwardly chuckling that these symptoms of recalcitration had not taken place until the fair malcontent was, as he mentally termed it, under his thumb, Archibald coolly replied, “That the hills were none of his making, nor did he know how to mend them; but as to lodging, they would soon be in a house of the Dukeís in a very pleasant island called Roseneath, where they went to wait for shipping to take them to Inverary, and would meet the company with whom Jeanie was to return to Edinburgh.”

“An island?” said Jeanie, who, in the course of her various and adventurous travels, had never quitted terra firma, “then I am doubting we maun gang in ane of these boats; they look unco smaí, and the waves are something rough, and”

“Mr. Archibald,” said Mrs. Dutton, “I will not consent to it; I was never engaed to leave the country, and I desire you will bid the boys drive round the other way to the Dukeís house.”

“There is a safe pinnace belonging to his Grace, maíam, close by,” replied Archibald, “and you need be under no apprehensions whatsoever.”

“But I am under apprehensions,” said the damsel; “and I insist upon going round by land, Mr. Archibald, were it ten miles about.”

“I am sorry I cannot oblige you, madam, as Roseneath happens to be an island.”

“If it were ten islands,” said the incensed dame, “thatís no reason why I should be drowned in going over the seas to it.”

“No reason why you should be drowned certainly, maíam,” answered the unmoved groom of the chambers, “but an admirable good one why you cannot proceed to it by land.” And, fixed his masterís mandates to perform, he pointed with his hand, and the drivers, turning off the high-road, proceeded towards a small hamlet of fishing huts, where a shallop, somewhat more gaily decorated than any which they had yet seen, having a flag which displayed a boarís head, crested with a ducal coronet, waited with two or three seamen, and as many Highlanders.

The carriage stopped, and the men began to unyoke their horses, while Mr. Archibald gravely superintended the removal of the baggage from the carriage to the little vessel. “Has the Caroline been long arrived?” said Archibald to one of the seamen.

“She has been here in five days from Liverpool, and sheís lying down at Greenock,” answered the fellow.

“Let the horses and carriage go down to Greenock then,” said Archibald, “and be embarked there for Inverary when I send notice--they may stand in my cousinís, Duncan Archibald the stablerís.--Ladies,” he added, “I hope you will get yourselves ready; we must not lose the tide.”

“Mrs. Deans,” said the Cowslip of Inverary, “you may do as you please--but I will sit here all night, rather than go into that there painted egg-shell.--Fellow--fellow!” (this was addressed to a Highlander who was lifting a travelling trunk), “that trunk is _mine,_ and that there band-box, and that pillion mail, and those seven bundles, and the paper-bag; and if you venture to touch one of them, it shall be at your peril.”

The Celt kept his eye fixed on the speaker, then turned his head towards Archibald, and receiving no countervailing signal, he shouldered the portmanteau, and without farther notice of the distressed damsel, or paying any attention to remonstrances, which probably he did not understand, and would certainly have equally disregarded whether he understood them or not, moved off with Mrs. Duttonís wearables, and deposited the trunk containing them safely in the boat.

The baggage being stowed in safety, Mr. Archibald handed Jeanie out of the carriage, and, not without some tremor on her part, she was transported through the surf and placed in the boat. He then offered the same civility to his fellow-servant, but she was resolute in her refusal to quit the carriage, in which she now remained in solitary state, threatening all concerned or unconcerned with actions for wages and board-wages, damages and expenses, and numbering on her fingers the gowns and other habiliments, from which she seemed in the act of being separated for ever. Mr. Archibald did not give himself the trouble of making many remonstrances, which, indeed, seemed only to aggravate the damselís indignation, but spoke two or three words to the Highlanders in Gaelic; and the wily mountaineers, approaching the carriage cautiously, and without giving the slightest intimation of their intention, at once seized the recusant so effectually fast that she could neither resist nor struggle, and hoisting her on their shoulders in nearly a horizontal posture, rushed down with her to the beach, and through the surf, and with no other inconvenience than ruffling her garments a little, deposited her in the boat; but in a state of surprise, mortification, and terror, at her sudden transportation, which rendered her absolutely mute for two or three minutes. The men jumped in themselves; one tall fellow remained till he had pushed off the boat, and then tumbled in upon his companions. They took their oars and began to pull from the shore, then spread their sail, and drove merrily across the firth.

“You Scotch villain!” said the infuriated damsel to Archibald, “how dare you use a person like me in this way?”

“Madam,” said Archibald, with infinite composure, “itís high time you should know you are in the Dukeís country, and that there is not one of these fellows but would throw you out of the boat as readily as into it, if such were his Graceís pleasure.”

“Then the Lord have mercy on me!” said Mrs. Dutton. “If I had had any on myself, I would never have engaged with you.”

“Itís something of the latest to think of that now, Mrs. Dutton,” said Archibald; “but I assure you, you will find the Highlands have their pleasures. You will have a dozen of cow-milkers under your own authority at Inverary, and you may throw any of them into the lake, if you have a mind, for the Dukeís head people are almost as great as himself.”

“This is a strange business, to be sure, Mr. Archibald,” said the lady; “but I suppose I must make the best onít.--Are you sure the boat will not sink? it leans terribly to one side, in my poor mind.”

“Fear nothing,” said Mr. Archibald, taking a most important pinch of snuff; “this same ferry on Clyde knows us very well, or we know it, which is all the same; no fear of any of our people meeting with any accident. We should have crossed from the opposite shore, but for the disturbances at Glasgow, which made it improper for his Graceís people to pass through the city.”

“Are you not afeard, Mrs. Deans,” said the dairy-vestal, addressing Jeanie, who sat, not in the most comfortable state of mind, by the side of Archibald, who himself managed the helm.--“are you not afeard of these wild men with their naked knees, and of this nut-shell of a thing, that seems bobbing up and down like a skimming-dish in a milk-pail?”

“No--no--madam,” answered Jeanie with some hesitation, “I am not feared; for I hae seen Hielandmen before, though never was sae near them; and for the danger of the deep waters, I trust there is a Providence by sea as well as by land.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Dutton, “it is a beautiful thing to have learned to write and read, for one can always say such fine words whatever should befall them.”

Archibald, rejoicing in the impression which his vigorous measures had made upon the intractable dairymaid, now applied himself, as a sensible and good-natured man, to secure by fair means the ascendency which he had obtained by some wholesome violence; and he succeeded so well in representing to her the idle nature of her fears, and the impossibility of leaving her upon the beach enthroned in an empty carriage, that the good understanding of the party was completely revived ere they landed at Roseneath.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

Did Fortune guide,
Or rather Destiny, our bark, to which
We could appoint no port, to this best place?
Fletcher.

The islands in the Firth of Clyde, which the daily passage of so many smoke-pennoned steamboats now renders so easily accessible, were in our fathersí times secluded spots, frequented by no travellers, and few visitants of any kind. They are of exquisite, yet varied beauty. Arran, a mountainous region, or Alpine island, abounds with the grandest and most romantic scenery. Bute is of a softer and more woodland character. The Cumbrays, as if to exhibit a contrast to both, are green, level, and bare, forming the links of a sort of natural bar which is drawn along the mouth of the firth, leaving large intervals, however, of ocean. Roseneath, a smaller isle, lies much higher up the firth, and towards its western shore, near the opening of the lake called the Gare Loch, and not far from Loch Long and Loch Scant, or the Holy Loch, which wind from the mountains of the Western Highlands to join the estuary of the Clyde.

In these isles the severe frost winds which tyrannise over the vegetable creation during a Scottish spring, are comparatively little felt; nor, excepting the gigantic strength of Arran, are they much exposed to the Atlantic storms, lying landlocked and protected to the westward by the shores of Ayrshire. Accordingly, the weeping-willow, the weeping-birch, and other trees of early and pendulous shoots, flourish in these favoured recesses in a degree unknown in our eastern districts; and the air is also said to possess that mildness which is favourable to consumptive cases.

The picturesque beauty of the island of Roseneath, in particular, had such recommendations, that the Earls and Dukes of Argyle, from an early period, made it their occasional residence, and had their temporary accommodation in a fishing or hunting-lodge, which succeeding improvements have since transformed into a palace. It was in its original simplicity when the little bark which we left traversing the firth at the end of last CHAPTER approached the shores of the isle.

When they touched the landing-place, which was partly shrouded by some old low but wide-spreading oak-trees, intermixed with hazel-bushes, two or three figures were seen as if awaiting their arrival. To these Jeanie paid little attention, so that it was with a shock of surprise almost electrical, that, upon being carried by the rowers out of the boat to the shore, she was received in the arms of her father!

It was too wonderful to be believed--too much like a happy dream to have the stable feeling of reality--She extricated herself from his close and affectionate embrace, and held him at armís length, to satisfy her mind that it was no illusion. But the form was indisputable--Douce David Deans himself, in his best light-blue Sundayís coat, with broad metal buttons, and waistcoat and breeches of the same, his strong gramashes or leggins of thick grey cloth--the very copper buckles--the broad Lowland blue bonnet, thrown back as he lifted his eyes to Heaven in speechless gratitude--the grey locks that straggled from beneath it down his weather-beaten “haffets”--the bald and furrowed forehead--the clear blue eye, that, undimmed by years, gleamed bright and pale from under its shaggy grey pent-house--the features, usually so stern and stoical, now melted into the unwonted expression of rapturous joy, affection, and gratitude--were all those of David Deans; and so happily did they assort together, that, should I ever again see my friends Wilkie or Allan, I will try to borrow or steal from them a sketch of this very scene.

“Jeanie--my ain Jeanie--my best--my maist dutiful bairn--the Lord of Israel be thy father, for I am hardly worthy of thee! Thou hast redeemed our captivity--brought back the honour of our house--Bless thee, my bairn, with mercies promised and purchased! But He _has_ blessed thee, in the good of which He has made thee the instrument.”

These words broke from him not without tears, though David was of no melting mood. Archibald had, with delicate attention, withdrawn the spectators from the interview, so that the wood and setting sun alone were witnesses of the expansion of their feelings.

“And Effie?--and Effie, dear father?” was an eager interjectional question which Jeanie repeatedly threw in among her expressions of joyful thankfulness.

“Ye will hear--Ye will hear,” said David hastily, and over and anon renewed his grateful acknowledgments to Heaven for sending Jeanie safe down from the land of prelatic deadness and schismatic heresy; and had delivered her from the dangers of the way, and the lions that were in the path.

“And Effie?” repeated her affectionate sister again and again. “And--and” (fain would she have said Butler, but she modified the direct inquiry)--“and Mr. and Mrs. Saddletree--and Dumbiedikes--and aí friends?”

“Aí weel--aí weel, praise to His name!”

“And--Mr. Butler--he wasna weel when I gaed awa?”

“He is quite mended--quite weel,” replied her father.

“Thank God--but O, dear father, Effie?--Effie?”

“You will never see her mair, my bairn,” answered Deans in a solemn tone-- “You are the ae and only leaf left now on the auld tree--hale be your portion!”

“She is dead!--She is slain!--It has come ower late!” exclaimed Jeanie, wringing her hands.

“No, Jeanie,” returned Deans, in the same grave melancholy tone. “She lives in the flesh, and is at freedom from earthly restraint, if she were as much alive in faith, and as free from the bonds of Satan.”

“The Lord protect us!” said Jeanie.--“Can the unhappy bairn hae left you for that villain?”

“It is ower truly spoken,” said Deans--“She has left her auld father, that has wept and prayed for her--She has left her sister, that travailed and toiled for her like a mother--She has left the bones of her mother, and the land of her people, and she is ower the march wií that son of Belial--She has made a moonlight flitting of it.” He paused, for a feeling betwixt sorrow and strong resentment choked his utterance.

“And wií that man?--that fearfuí man?” said Jeanie. “And she has left us to gang aff wií him?--O Effie, Effie, wha could hae thought it, after sic a deliverance as you had been gifted wií!”

“She went out from us, my bairn, because she was not of us,” replied David. “She is a withered branch will never bear fruit of grace--a scapegoat gone forth into the wilderness of the world, to carry wií her, as I trust, the sins of our little congregation. The peace of the warld gang wií her, and a better peace when she has the grace to turn to it! If she is of His elected, His ain hour will come. What would her mother have said, that famous and memorable matron, Rebecca MacNaught, whose memory is like a flower of sweet savour in Newbattle, and a pot of frankincense in Lugton? But be it sae--let her part--let her gang her gate--let her bite on her ain bridle--The Lord kens his time--She was the bairn of prayers, and may not prove an utter castaway. But never, Jeanie, never more let her name be spoken between you and me--She hath passed from us like the brook which vanisheth when the summer waxeth warm, as patient Job saith--let her pass, and be forgotten.”

There was a melancholy pause which followed these expressions. Jeanie would fain have asked more circumstances relating to her sisterís departure, but the tone of her fatherís prohibition was positive. She was about to mention her interview with Staunton at his fatherís rectory; but, on hastily running over the particulars in her memory, she thought that, on the whole, they were more likely to aggravate than diminish his distress of mind. She turned, therefore, the discourse from this painful subject, resolving to suspend farther inquiry until she should see Butler, from whom she expected to learn the particulars of her sisterís elopement.

But when was she to see Butler? was a question she could not forbear asking herself, especially while her father, as if eager to escape from the subject of his youngest daughter, pointed to the opposite shore of Dumbartonshire, and asking Jeanie “if it werena a pleasant abode?” declared to her his intention of removing his earthly tabernacle to that country, “in respect he was solicited by his Grace the Duke of Argyle, as one well skilled in country labour, and aí that appertained to flocks and herds, to superintend a store-farm, whilk his Grace had taen into his ain hand for the improvement of stock.”

Jeanieís heart sunk within her at this declaration. “She allowed it was a goodly and pleasant land, and sloped bonnily to the western sun; and she doubtedna that the pasture might be very gude, for the grass looked green, for as drouthy as the weather had been. But it was far frae hame, and she thought she wad be often thinking on the bonny spots of turf, sae fuí of gowans and yellow king-cups, amang the Crags at St. Leonardís.”

“Dinna speak onít, Jeanie,” said her father; “I wish never to hear it named mair--that is, after the rouping is ower, and the bills paid. But I brought aí the beasts owerby that I thought ye wad like best. There is Gowans, and thereís your ain brockit cow, and the wee hawkit ane, that ye caíd--I needna tell ye how ye caíd it--but I couldna bid them sell the petted creature, though the sight oí it may sometimes gie us a sair heart--itís no the poor dumb creatureís fault--And ane or twa beasts mair I hae reserved, and I caused them to be driven before the other beasts, that men might say, as when the son of Jesse returned from battle, ëThis is Davidís spoil.í”

Upon more particular inquiry, Jeanie found new occasion to admire the active beneficence of her friend the Duke of Argyle. While establishing a sort of experimental farm on the skirts of his immense Highland estates, he had been somewhat at a loss to find a proper person in whom to vest the charge of it. The conversation his Grace had upon country matters with Jeanie Deans during their return from Richmond, had impressed him with a belief that the father, whose experience and success she so frequently quoted, must be exactly the sort of person whom he wanted. When the condition annexed to Effieís pardon rendered it highly probable that David Deans would choose to change his place of residence, this idea again occurred to the Duke more strongly, and as he was an enthusiast equally in agriculture and in benevolence, he imagined he was serving the purposes of both, when he wrote to the gentleman in Edinburgh entrusted with his affairs, to inquire into the character of David Deans, cowfeeder, and so forth, at St. Leonardís Crags; and if he found him such as he had been represented, to engage him without delay, and on the most liberal terms, to superintend his fancy-farm in Dumbartonshire.

The proposal was made to old David by the gentleman so commissioned, on the second day after his daughterís pardon had reached Edinburgh. His resolution to leave St. Leonardís had been already formed; the honour of an express invitation from the Duke of Argyle to superintend a department where so much skill and diligence was required, was in itself extremely flattering; and the more so, because honest David, who was not without an exeellent opinion of his own talents, persuaded himself that, by accepting this charge, he would in some sort repay the great favour he had received at the hands of the Argyle family. The appointments, including the right of sufficient grazing for a small stock of his own, were amply liberal; and Davidís keen eye saw that the situation was convenient for trafficking to advantage in Highland cattle. There was risk of “heríship” * from the neighbouring mountains, indeed, but the awful name of the Duke of Argyle would be a great security, and a trifle of _black-mail_ would, David was aware, assure his safety.

* Heríship, a Scottish word which may be said to be now obsolete; because, fortunately, the practice of “plundering by armed force,” which is its meaning, does not require to be commonly spoken of.

Still however, there were two points on which he haggled. The first was the character of the clergyman with whose worship he was to join; and on this delicate point he received, as we will presently show the reader, perfect satisfaction. The next obstacle was the condition of his youngest daughter, obliged as she was to leave Scotland for so many years.

The gentleman of the law smiled, and said, “There was no occasion to interpret that clause very strictly--that if the young woman left Scotland for a few months, or even weeks, and came to her fatherís new residence by sea from the western side of England, nobody would know of her arrival, or at least nobody who had either the right or inclination to give her disturbance. The extensive heritable jurisdictions of his Grace excluded the interference of other magistrates with those living on his estates, and they who were in immediate dependence on him would receive orders to give the young woman no disturbance. Living on the verge of the Highlands, she might, indeed, be said to be out of Scotland, that is, beyond the bounds of ordinary law and civilisation.”

Old Deans was not quite satisfied with this reasoning; but the elopement of Effie, which took place on the third night after her liberation, rendered his residence at St. Leonardís so detestable to him, that he closed at once with the proposal which had been made him, and entered with pleasure into the idea of surprising Jeanie, as had been proposed by the Duke, to render the change of residence more striking to her. The Duke had apprised Archibald of these circumstances, with orders to act according to the instructions he should receive from Edinburgh, and by which accordingly he was directed to bring Jeanie to Roseneath.

The father and daughter communicated these matters to each other, now stopping, now walking slowly towards the Lodge, which showed itself among the trees, at about half-a-mileís distance from the little bay in which they had landed. As they approached the house, David Deans informed his daughter, with somewhat like a grim smile, which was the utmost advance he ever made towards a mirthful expression of visage, that “there was baith a worshipful gentleman, and ane reverend gentleman, residing therein. The worshipful gentleman was his honour the Laird of Knocktarlitie, who was bailie of the lordship under the Duke of Argyle, ane Highland gentleman, tarríd wií the same stick,” David doubted, “as mony of them, namely, a hasty and choleric temper, and a neglect of the higher things that belong to salvation, and also a gripping unto the things of this world, without muckle distinction of property; but, however, ane gude hospitable gentleman, with whom it would be a part of wisdom to live on a gude understanding (for Hielandmen were hasty, ower hasty). As for the reverend person of whom he had spoken, he was candidate by favour of the Duke of Argyle (for David would not for the universe have called him presentee) for the kirk of the parish in which their farm was situated, and he was likely to be highly acceptable unto the Christian souls of the parish, who were hungering for spiritual manna, having been fed but upon sour Hieland sowens by Mr. Duncan MacDonought, the last minister, who began the morning duly, Sunday and Saturday, with a mutchkin of usquebaugh. But I need say the less about the present lad,” said David, again grimly grimacing, “as I think ye may hae seen him afore; and here he is come to meet us.”

She had indeed seen him before, for it was no other than Reuben Butler himself.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

No more shalt thou behold thy sisterís face;
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
Elegy on Mrs. Anne Killigrew.

This second surprise had been accomplished for Jeanie Deans by the rod of the same benevolent enchanter, whose power had transplanted her father from the Crags of St. Leonardís to the banks of the Gare Loch. The Duke of Argyle was not a person to forget the hereditary debt of gratitude, which had been bequeathed to him by his grandfather, in favour of the grandson of old Bible Butler. He had internally resolved to provide for Reuben Butler in this kirk of Knocktarlitie, of which the incumbent had just departed this life. Accordingly, his agent received the necessary instructions for that purpose, under the qualifying condition always, that the learning and character of Mr. Butler should be found proper for the charge. Upon inquiry, these were found as highly satisfactory as had been reported in the case of David Deans himself.

By this preferment, the Duke of Argyle more essentially benefited his friend and _protegee_, Jeanie, than he himself was aware of, since he contributed to remove objections in her fatherís mind to the match, which he had no idea had been in existence.

We have already noticed that Deans had something of a prejudice against Butler, which was, perhaps, in some degree owing to his possessing a sort of consciousness that the poor usher looked with eyes of affection upon his eldest daughter. This, in Davidís eyes, was a sin of presumption, even although it should not be followed by any overt act, or actual proposal. But the lively interest which Butler had displayed in his distresses, since Jeanie set forth on her London expedition, and which, therefore, he ascribed to personal respect for himself individually, had greatly softened the feelings of irritability with which David had sometimes regarded him. And, while he was in this good disposition towards Butler, another incident took place which had great influence on the old manís mind. So soon as the shock of Effieís second elopement was over, it was Deansís early care to collect and refund to the Laird of Dumbiedikes the money which he had lent for Effieís trial, and for Jeanieís travelling expenses. The Laird, the pony, the cocked hat, and the tabacco-pipe, had not been seen at St. Leonardís Crags for many a day; so that, in order to pay this debt, David was under the necessity of repairing in person to the mansion of Dumbiedikes.

He found it in a state of unexpected bustle. There were workmen pulling down some of the old hangings, and replacing them with others, altering, repairing, scrubbing, painting, and white-washing. There was no knowing the old house, which had been so long the mansion of sloth and silence. The Laird himself seemed in some confusion, and his reception, though kind, lacked something of the reverential cordiality, with which he used to greet David Deans. There was a change also, David did not very well know of what nature, about the exterior of this landed proprietor--an improvement in the shape of his garments, a spruceness in the air with which they were put on, that were both novelties. Even the old hat looked smarter; the cock had been newly pointed, the lace had been refreshed, and instead of slouching backward or forward on the Lairdís head, as it happened to be thrown on, it was adjusted with a knowing inclination over one eye.

David Deans opened his business, and told down the cash. Dumbiedikes steadily inclined his ear to the one, and counted the other with great accuracy, interrupting David, while he was talking of the redemption of the captivity of Judah, to ask him whether he did not think one or two of the guineas looked rather light. When he was satisfied on this point, had pocketed his money, and had signed a receipt, he addressed David with some little hesitation,--“Jeanie wad be writing ye something, gudeman?”

“About the siller?” replied David--“Nae doubt, she did.”

“And did she say nae mair about me?” asked the Laird.

“Nae mair but kind and Christian wishes--what suld she hae said?” replied David, fully expecting that the Lairdís long courtship (if his dangling after Jeanie deserves so active a name) was now coming to a point. And so indeed it was, but not to that point which he wished or expected.

“Aweel, she kens her ain mind best, gudeman. I hae made a clean house oí Jenny Balchristie, and her niece. They were a bad pack--stealíd meat and mault, and loot the carters magg the coals--Iím to be married the morn, and kirkit on Sunday.”

Whatever David felt, he was too proud and too steady-minded to show any unpleasant surprise in his countenance and manner.

“I wuss ye happy, sir, through Him that gies happiness--marriage is an honourable state.”

“And I am wedding into an honourable house, David--the Laird of Lickpelfís youngest daughter--she sits next us in the kirk, and thatís the way I came to think onít.”

There was no more to be said but again to wish the Laird joy, to taste a cup of his liquor, and to walk back again to St. Leonardís, musing on the mutability of human affairs and human resolutions. The expectation that one day or other Jeanie would be Lady Dumbiedikes, had, in spite of himself, kept a more absolute possession of Davidís mind than he himself was aware of. At least, it had hitherto seemed a union at all times within his daughterís reach, whenever she might choose to give her silent lover any degree of encouragement, and now it was vanished for ever. David returned, therefore, in no very gracious humour for so good a man. He was angry with Jeanie for not having encouraged the Laird--he was angry with the Laird for requiring encouragement--and he was angry with himself for being angry at all on the occasion.

On his return he found the gentleman who managed the Duke of Argyleís affairs was desirous of seeing him, with a view to completing the arrangement between them. Thus, after a brief repose, he was obliged to set off anew for Edinburgh, so that old May Hettly declared, “That aí this was to end with the master just walking himself aff his feet.”

When the business respecting the farm had been talked over and arranged, the professional gentleman acquainted David Deans, in answer to his inquiries concerning the state of public worship, that it was the pleasure of the Duke to put an excellent young clergyman, called Reuben Butler, into the parish, which was to be his future residence.

“Reuben Butler!” exclaimed David--“Reuben Butler, the usher at Liberton?”

“The very same,” said the Dukeís commissioner; “his Grace has heard an excellent character of him, and has some hereditary obligations to him besides--few ministers will be so comfortable as I am directed to make Mr. Butler.”

“Obligations?--The Duke?--Obligations to Reuben Butler--Reuben Butler a placed minister of the Kirk of Scotland?” exclaimed David, in interminable astonishment, for somehow he had been led by the bad success which Butler had hitherto met with in all his undertakings, to consider him as one of those step-sons of Fortune, whom she treats with unceasing rigour, and ends with disinheriting altogether.

There is, perhaps, no time at which we are disposed to think so highly of a friend, as when we find him standing higher than we expected in the esteem of others. When assured of the reality of Butlerís change of prospects, David expressed his great satisfaction at his success in life, which, he observed, was entirely owing to himself (David). “I advised his puir grand-mother, who was but a silly woman, to breed him up to the ministry; and I prophesied that, with a blessing on his endeavours, he would become a polished shaft in the temple. He may be something ower proud oí his carnal learning, but a gude lad, and has the root of the matter--as ministers gang now, where yell find ane better, yeíll find ten waur, than Reuben Butler.”

He took leave of the man of business, and walked homeward, forgetting his weariness in the various speculations to which this wonderful piece of intelligence gave rise. Honest David had now, like other great men, to go to work to reconcile his speculative principles with existing circumstances; and, like other great men, when they set seriously about that task, he was tolerably successful.

Ought Reuben Butler in conscience to accept of this preferment in the Kirk of Scotland, subject as David at present thought that establishment was to the Erastian encroachments of the civil power? This was the leading question, and he considered it carefully. “The Kirk of Scotland was shorn of its beams, and deprived of its full artillery and banners of authority; but still it contained zealous and fructifying pastors, attentive congregations, and, with all her spots and blemishes, the like of this Kirk was nowhere else to be seen upon earth.”

Davidís doubts had been too many and too critical to permit him ever unequivocally to unite himself with any of the dissenters, who upon various accounts absolutely seceded from the national church. He had often joined in communion with such of the established clergy as approached nearest to the old Presbyterian model and principles of 1640. And although there were many things to be amended in that system, yet he remembered that he, David Deans, had himself ever been an humble pleader for the good old cause in a legal way, but without rushing into right-hand excesses, divisions and separations. But, as an enemy to separation, he might join the right-hand of fellowship with a minister of the Kirk of Scotland in its present model. _Ergo,_ Reuben Butler might take possession of the parish of Knocktarlitie, without forfeiting his friendship or favour--Q. E. D. But, secondly, came the trying point of lay-patronage, which David Deans had ever maintained to be a coming in by the window, and over the wall, a cheating and starving the souls of a whole parish, for the purpose of clothing the back and filling the belly of the incumbent.

This presentation, therefore, from the Duke of Argyle, whatever was the worth and high character of that nobleman, was a limb of the brazen image, a portion of the evil thing, and with no kind of consistency could David bend his mind to favour such a transaction. But if the parishioners themselves joined in a general call to Reuben Butler to be their pastor, it did not seem quite so evident that the existence of this unhappy presentation was a reason for his refusing them the comforts of his doctrine. If the Presbytery admitted him to the kirk, in virtue rather of that act of patronage than of the general call of the congregation, that might be their error, and David allowed it was a heavy one. But if Reuben Butler accepted of the cure as tendered to him by those whom he was called to teach, and who had expressed themselves desirous to learn, David, after considering and reconsidering the matter, came, through the great virtue of if, to be of opinion that he might safely so act in that matter.

There remained a third stumbling-block--the oaths to Government exacted from the established clergymen, in which they acknowledge an Erastian king and parliament, and homologate the incorporating Union between England and Scotland, through which the latter kingdom had become part and portion of the former, wherein Prelacy, the sister of Popery, had made fast her throne, and elevated the horns of her mitre. These were symptoms of defection which had often made David cry out, “My bowels--my bowels!--I am pained at the very heart!” And he remembered that a godly Bow-head matron had been carried out of the Tolbooth church in a swoon, beyond the reach of brandy and burnt feathers, merely on hearing these fearful words, “It is enacted by the Lords _spiritual_ and temporal,” pronounced from a Scottish pulpit, in the proem to the Porteous Proclamation. These oaths were, therefore, a deep compliance and dire abomination--a sin and a snare, and a danger and a defection. But this shibboleth was not always exacted. Ministers had respect to their own tender consciences, and those of their brethren; and it was not till a later period that the reins of discipline were taken up tight by the General Assemblies and Presbyteries. The peacemaking particle came again to Davidís assistance. _If_ an incumbent was not called upon to make such compliances, and _if_ he got a right entry into the church without intrusion, and by orderly appointment, why, upon the whole, David Deans came to be of opinion, that the said incumbent might lawfully enjoy the spirituality and temporality of the cure of souls at Knocktarlitie, with stipend, manse, glebe, and all thereunto appertaining.

The best and most upright-minded men are so strongly influenced by existing circumstances, that it would be somewhat cruel to inquire too nearly what weight parental affection gave to these ingenious trains of reasoning. Let David Deansís situation be considered. He was just deprived of one daughter, and his eldest, to whom he owed so much, was cut off, by the sudden resolution of Dumbiedikes, from the high hope which David had entertained, that she might one day be mistress of that fair lordship. Just while this disappointment was bearing heavy on his spirits, Butler comes before his imagination--no longer the half-starved threadbare usher, but fat and sleek and fair, the beneficed minister of Knocktarlitie, beloved by his congregation--exemplary in his life--powerful in his doctrine--doing the duty of the kirk as never Highland minister did before--turning sinners as a colley dog turns sheep--a favourite of the Duke of Argyle, and drawing a stipend of eight hundred punds Scots, and four chalders of victual. Here was a match, making up in Davidís mind, in a tenfold degree, the disappointment in the case of Dumbiedikes, in so far as the goodman of St. Leonardís held a powerful minister in much greater admiration than a mere landed proprietor. It did not occur to him, as an additional reason in favour of the match, that Jeanie might herself have some choice in the matter; for the idea of consulting her feelings never once entered into the honest manís head, any more than the possibility that her inclination might perhaps differ from his own.

The result of his meditations was, that he was called upon to take the management of the whole affair into his own hand, and give, if it should be found possible without sinful compliance, or backsliding, or defection of any kind, a worthy pastor to the kirk of Knocktarlitie. Accordingly, by the intervention of the honest dealer in butter-milk who dwelt in Liberton, David summoned to his presence Reuben Butler. Even from this worthy messenger he was unable to conceal certain swelling emotions of dignity, insomuch, that, when the carter had communicated his message to the usher, he added, that “Certainly the Gudeman of St. Leonardís had some grand news to tell him, for he was as uplifted as a midden-cock upon pattens.”

Butler, it may readily be conceived, immediately obeyed the summons. He was a plain character, in which worth and good sense and simplicity were the principal ingredients; but love, on this occasion, gave him a certain degree of address. He had received an intimation of the favour designed him by the Duke of Argyle, with what feelings those only can conceive who have experienced a sudden prospect of being raised to independence and respect from penury and toil. He resolved, however, that the old man should retain all the consequence of being, in his own opinion, the first to communicate the important intelligence. At the same time, he also determined that in the expected conference he would permit David Deans to expatiate at length upon the proposal, in all its bearings, without irritating him either by interruption or contradiction. This last was the most prudent plan he could have adopted; because, although there were many doubts which David Deans could himself clear up to his own satisfaction, yet he might have been by no means disposed to accept the solution of any other person; and to engage him in an argument would have been certain to confirm him at once and for ever in the opinion which Butler chanced to impugn.

He received his friend with an appearance of important gravity, which real misfortune had long compelled him to lay aside, and which belonged to those days of awful authority in which he predominated over Widow Butler, and dictated the mode of cultivating the crofts of Beersheba. He made known to Reuben, with great prolixity, the prospect of his changing his present residence for the charge of the Duke of Argyleís stock-farm in Dumbartonshire, and enumerated the various advantages of the situation with obvious self-congratulation; but assured the patient hearer, that nothing had so much moved him to acceptance, as the sense that, by his skill in bestial, he could render the most important services to his Grace the Duke of Argyle, to whom, “in the late unhappy circumstance” (here a tear dimmed the sparkle of pride in the old manís eye), “he had been sae muckle obliged.”

“To put a rude Hielandman into sic a charge,” he continued, “what could be expected but that he suld be sic a chiefest herdsman, as wicked Doeg the Edomite? whereas, while this grey head is to the fore, not a clute oí them but sall be as weel cared for as if they were the fatted kine of Pharaoh.--And now, Reuben, lad, seeing we maun remove our tent to a strange country, ye will be casting a dolefuí look after us, and thinking with whom ye are to hold counsel anent your government in thae slippery and backsliding times; and nae doubt remembering, that the auld man, David Deans, was made the instrument to bring you out of the mire of schism and heresy, wherein your fatherís house delighted to wallow; aften also, nae doubt, when ye are pressed wií ensnaring trials and tentations and heart-plagues, you, that are like a recruit that is marching for the first time to the touk of drum, will miss the auld, bauld, and experienced veteran soldier that has felt the brunt of mony a foul day, and heard the bullets whistle as aften as he has hairs left on his auld pow.”

It is very possible that Butler might internally be of opinion, that the reflection on his ancestorís peculiar tenets might have been spared, or that he might be presumptuous enough even to think, that, at his years, and with his own lights, he might be able to hold his course without the pilotage of honest David. But he only replied, by expressing his regret, that anything should separate him from an ancient, tried, and affectionate friend.

“But how can it be helped, man?” said David, twisting his features into a sort of smile--“How can we help it?--I trow, ye canna tell me that--Ye maun leave that to ither folk--to the Duke of Argyle and me, Reuben. Itís a gude thing to hae friends in this warld--how muckle better to hae an interest beyond it!”

And David, whose piety, though not always quite rational, was as sincere as it was habitual and fervent, looked reverentially upward and paused. Mr. Butler intimated the pleasure with which he would receive his friendís advice on a subject so important, and David resumed.

“What think ye now, Reuben, of a kirk--a regular kirk under the present establishment?--Were sic offered to ye, wad ye be free to accept it, and under whilk provisions?--I am speaking but by way of query.”

Butler replied, “That if such a prospect were held out to him, he would probably first consult whether he was likely to be useful to the parish he should be called to; and if there appeared a fair prospect of his proving so, his friend must be aware, that in every other point of view, it would be highly advantageous for him.”

“Right, Reuben, very right, lad,” answered the monitor, “your ain conscience is the first thing to be satisfied--for how sall he teach others that has himself sae ill learned the Scriptures, as to grip for the lucre of foul earthly preferment, sic as gear and manse, money and victual, that which is not his in a spiritual sense--or wha makes his kirk a stalking-horse, from behind which he may tak aim at his stipend? But I look for better things of you--and specially ye maun be minded not to act altogether on your ain judgment, for therethrough comes sair mistakes, backslidings and defections, on the left and on the right. If there were sic a day of trial put to you, Reuben, you, who are a young lad, although it may be ye are gifted wií the carnal tongues, and those whilk were spoken at Rome, whilk is now the seat of the scarlet abomination, and by the Greeks, to whom the Gospel was as foolishness, yet nae-the-less ye may be entreated by your weel-wisher to take the counsel of those prudent and resolved and weather-withstanding professors, wha hae kend what it was to lurk on banks and in mosses, in bogs and in caverns, and to risk the peril of the head rather than renounce the honesty of the heart.”

Butler replied, “That certainly, possessing such a friend as he hoped and trusted he had in the goodman himself, who had seen so many changes in the preceding century, he should be much to blame if he did not avail himself of his experience and friendly counsel.”

“Eneugh said--eneugh said, Reuben,” said David Deans, with internal exultation; “and say that ye were in the predicament whereof I hae spoken, of a surety I would deem it my duty to gang to the root oí the matter, and lay bare to you the ulcers and imposthumes, and the sores and the leprosies, of this our time, crying aloud and sparing not.”

David Deans was now in his element. He commenced his examination of the doctrines and belief of the Christian Church with the very Culdees, from whom he passed to John Knox,--from John Knox to the recusants in James the Sixthís time--Bruce, Black, Blair, Livingstone,--from them to the brief, and at length triumphant period of the Presbyterian Churchís splendour, until it was overrun by the English Independents. Then followed the dismal times of prelacy, the indulgences, seven in number, with all their shades and bearings, until he arrived at the reign of King James the Second, in which he himself had been, in his own mind, neither an obscure actor nor an obscure sufferer. Then was Butler doomed to hear the most detailed and annotated edition of what he had so often heard before,--David Deansís confinement, namely, in the iron cage in the Canongate Tolbooth, and the cause thereof.

We should be very unjust to our friend David Deans, if we should “pretermit”--to use his own expression--a narrative which he held essential to his fame. A drunken trooper of the Royal Guards, Francis Gordon by name, had chased five or six of the skulking Whigs, among whom was our friend David; and after he had compelled them to stand, and was in the act of brawling with them, one of their number fired a pocket-pistol, and shot him dead. David used to sneer and shake his head when any one asked him whether _he_ had been the instrument of removing this wicked persecutor from the face of the earth. In fact the merit of the deed lay between him and his friend, Patrick Walker, the pedlar, whose words he was so fond of quoting. Neither of them cared directly to claim the merit of silencing Mr. Francis Gordon of the Life-Guards, there being some wild cousins of his about Edinburgh, who might have been even yet addicted to revenge, but yet neither of them chose to disown or yield to the other the merit of this active defence of their religious rights. David said, that if he had fired a pistol then, it was what he never did after or before. And as for Mr. Patrick Walker, he has left it upon record, that his great surprise was, that so small a pistol could kill so big a man. These are the words of that venerable biographer, whose trade had not taught him by experience, that an inch was as good as an ell. “He,” (Francis Gordon) “got a shot in his head out of a pocket-pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than killing such a furious, mad, brisk man, which notwithstanding killed him dead!”*

* Note S. Death of Francis Gordon.

Upon the extensive foundation which the history of the kirk afforded, during its short-lived triumph and long tribulation, David, with length of breath and of narrative, which would have astounded any one but a lover of his daughter, proceeded to lay down his own rules for guiding the conscience of his friend, as an aspirant to serve in the ministry. Upon this subject, the good man went through such a variety of nice and casuistical problems, supposed so many extreme cases, made the distinctions so critical and nice betwixt the right hand and the left hand--betwixt compliance and defection--holding back and stepping aside--slipping and stumbling--snares and errors--that at length, after having limited the path of truth to a mathematical line, he was brought to the broad admission, that each manís conscience, after he had gained a certain view of the difficult navigation which he was to encounter, would be the best guide for his pilotage. He stated the examples and arguments for and against the acceptance of a kirk on the present revolution model, with much more impartiality to Butler than he had been able to place them before his own view. And he concluded, that his young friend ought to think upon these things, and be guided by the voice of his own conscience, whether he could take such an awful trust as the charge of souls without doing injury to his own internal conviction of what is right or wrong.

When David had finished his very long harangue, which was only interrupted by monosyllables, or little more, on the part of Butler, the orator himself was greatly astonished to find that the conclusion, at which he very naturally wished to arrive, seemed much less decisively attained than when he had argued the case in his own mind.

In this particular, Davidís current of thinking and speaking only illustrated the very important and general proposition, concerning the excellence of the publicity of debate. For, under the influence of any partial feeling, it is certain, that most men can more easily reconcile themselves to any favourite measure, when agitating it in their own mind, than when obliged to expose its merits to a third party, when the necessity of seeming impartial procures for the opposite arguments a much more fair statement than that which he affords it in tacit meditation. Having finished what he had to say, David thought himself obliged to be more explicit in point of fact, and to explain that this was no hypothetical case, but one on which (by his own influence and that of the Duke of Argyle) Reuben Butler would soon be called to decide.

It was even with something like apprehension that David Deans heard Butler announce, in return to this communication, that he would take that night to consider on what he had said with such kind intentions, and return him an answer the next morning. The feelings of the father mastered David on this occasion. He pressed Butler to spend the evening with him--He produced, most unusual at his meals, one, nay, two bottles of aged strong ale.--He spoke of his daughter--of her merits--her housewifery--her thrift--her affection. He led Butler so decidedly up to a declaration of his feelings towards Jeanie, that, before nightfall, it was distinctly understood she was to be the bride of Reuben Butler; and if they thought it indelicate to abridge the period of deliberation which Reuben had stipulated, it seemed to be sufficiently understood betwixt them, that there was a strong probability of his becoming minister of Knocktarlitie, providing the congregation were as willing to accept of him, as the Duke to grant him the presentation. The matter of the oaths, they agreed, it was time enough to dispute about, whenever the shibboleth should be tendered.

Many arrangements were adopted that evening, which were afterwards ripened by correspondence with the Duke of Argyleís man of business, who intrusted Deans and Butler with the benevolent wish of his principal, that they should all meet with Jeanie, on her return from England, at the Dukeís hunting-lodge in Roseneath.

This retrospect, so far as the placid loves of Jeanie Deans and Reuben Butler are concerned, forms a full explanation of the preceding narrative up to their meeting on the island, as already mentioned.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.